


An Earned Thing

by Jalules



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestors, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Mind Control, Minor Violence, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalules/pseuds/Jalules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He gives her eight more nights."</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Earned Thing

**Author's Note:**

> A gift fic from the prompt, "To die would be an awfully big adventure.”

.

.

.

He gives her eight more nights.

It’s what she would want, probably more than she deserves.

For two and a half sweeps they’ve played at this game, meeting in secret and helping each other out of scrapes behind the scenes. They’re hardly public, though he’s heard that she gloats to her crew about the handsome young troll she takes to bed.

Young would be an understatement, really. He’s sweeps behind her, physically and mentally. She’s focused on the future, on a set of prophecies and promises, while he’s rooted in the present problem.

He’s sort of got a mission here, and while she isn’t exactly getting in the way, all her teasing talk of switching sides eight times over has worried him enough to put a premature crease in his brow. They’ve talked it over, her never giving a straight answer, him eventually folding, falling to her side, agreeing that her questionable loyalties aren’t a problem _for now_.

She reminds him well and often of his destiny to kill her, throws it into conversation like it’s a joke, with a laugh that has become more and more nervous with each mention. She really does believe it will happen, someday, somehow, and all along he’s sworn it couldn’t be true.

He speaks softly much of the time, murmurs some thoughts aloud and keeps his feelings to himself. But each insistence that she’ll die by his hand, he shoots down with an uncharacteristic flash of anger.

What does she think him, a traitor? The kind of scum who would kill their closest friend? Their lover?

No, he says, and always turns to teasing, he isn’t a _pirate_ after all.

But the rumor mill is turning, and the more he hears of the infamous Marquise, of the political intrigue she has been dancing around, of the people she’s made friends and enemies of, the less certain of himself he becomes. Every secondhand story sinks inside him, gives him another excuse to stab at the practice dummies around his base a bit too hard.

What he’s been hearing spells the early stirrings of his own plans’ demise. He’s been around the Marquise long enough now to know that if he hears something awful about her, it is probably, unfortunately, true.

He’s come to understand that something between them will have to give, that she will never be the one to bend first, that he is far too likely to break.

Now he studies the calendar, prepares to make himself a traitor. He will eat his words, bitter as they are, and see that her precious, terrible prophecy is fulfilled.

Eight nights, he decides, and flies to sea with a heavy heart to start the first.

.

They have dinner in the field where he once lived.

It’s rare for her to come so far inland and he appreciates the gesture, even if he had to carry her half of the way here.

Under the stars, making troll shaped creases in tall grass, they talk about their plans. They put aside empty plates and lay side by side, nearly touching. His wings buzz with a slight ache, and he ignores them.

He calls her Spinneret and she slaps at his arm, a violent and wordless suggestion to hush. Even when they meet in the dark of night, in the middle of nowhere and close enough to kiss, personal touches like names seem to make her uneasy.

He addresses her as the Great and Powerful Mindfang instead, sweeps his hands wide and puts on his most roguish smile, and she laughs up a storm. She smiles so easily, makes him feel so flushed, still.  He almost forgets himself, puts his countdown out of mind.

He watches the stars in their shift across the sky, lets his hand rest over hers, cool metal that reacts slower than her slightly warmer flesh and blood, closes fingers over his first gently, then tighter.

They could do so much together, she reminds him. She tells him this a lot.

She tries to sway him. Without taking hold of his mind, she has only her words to win him over, to change his feelings. They want many of the same things, but in the places their opinions differ, he holds onto his ideas quietly, stubbornly, and she loses patience. She wants to be a team, wants to bring him into his own and make him the best that he could possibly be. She sees so much potential, wants him to be twice the leader he already is.

They could command the skies and seas, she says in a sigh, and leans her head upon his shoulder.

He shivers, forces a smile.

They could, he agrees. Though they won’t. He doesn’t voice the second thought, not wishing to anger her, to disappoint her now. Not when he only has eight nights.

He watches her breathe instead, counting the moments.

.

.

The Summoner perches on the side of Mindfang’s ship, the third replacement for her ‘true’ ship, apparently, with his bloodpusher still pounding from run ins with not just a group of blueblood officers, but a particularly angry Subbjugglator as well.

Ever since the Condesce went off-planet, the highbloods left in command have become more troublesome than ever. They each have their own idea of justice, of what goals are important, and many seem to be ignoring whatever orders she left in favor of exacting their own petty vengeance.

Unfortunately, this means the three hundred or so highbloods he’s taunted or beat or absolutely disgraced over the sweeps would all rather like a piece of him.

He dodged two separate attacks today, one clumsy, one terrifyingly close to a success, and though he’s got a nasty cut on one arm, a few holes in his favorite tunic, and an ugly bruise blossoming across his ribs, the rush of cheating death has left him wanting to touch the stars.

He touches down on deck instead, knocks on her tiny cabin window, and grins in as she glances up from her writing desk, looking tired and vaguely amused.

He intends to confess his feelings for the hundredth time, to compare her to a summer’s night and the deepest blues of the ocean and a million poetic, silly things that are making him giddy to think about.

He wants to say that he loves her before he remembers that he only has seven nights left to do so.

She comes outside in a robe, barefoot on the empty deck. One sleeve hangs loose, empty, and though he always imagines she should look smaller with the prosthetic arm removed, she stands just as tall as ever.

She says he looks like hell, and it’s only then that he notices the circles beneath her eyes, the frown pulling at her lips.

He smiles to lighten the mood, says he’s just come back from kicking ass, so he hopes she’ll pardon any blood on the deck.

She winces, stands up a little straighter and asks, low and quiet, slightly bitter, if he’s come to finish her off then.

Every urge to sweep through the sky drops out of him, grounds him hard, and he steps forward to place a hand on her good shoulder.

He can hardly ask what happened before it sinks in. The clues he missed in his own excitement- the flag hung at half mast, the broken railing on the far end of the ship, the sadness settled in the Marquise’s gaze, come together to a somber realization.

How many did they lose?

Two. Only two.

But who-

Some lowblood rats in a stolen sloop.

He frowns. She sees it and snaps, tells him to get the hell over it, she was giving an accurate description, not pissing on the lower caste for fuck’s sake.

He’s not about to argue with her now. He apologizes instead, offers his sympathy for the loss of two crew members. Though Mindfang has lost many men before, deaths never seem any easier. She’ll be laughing carelessly a day from now, he knows, but behind her proud sneer there will still be the low ache of loss, the burn of another failure.

He knows the feeling. Not three weeks ago a troll younger than himself died in his arms, shot through with a blueblood’s arrow. She whispered some final words, a message to pass along to her pale partner, but he hasn’t yet delivered them. He’s been preoccupied.

He is probably a terrible leader.

Feeling low enough to sink to the bottom of the sea, he pulls the Marquise into his arms, more to comfort himself than her.

They stay like this for a while, resting against one another, feeling the pull of misery, till the clock in her cabin chimes, muffled through the door, and a sense of time hits him once again.

There are seven nights, he remembers.

He breaks the silence, says that he hates to be inappropriate, but she looks like she could use someone to take her frustration out on. Maybe sink her teeth into a little?

She snorts a laugh, hugs him tighter with one arm.

He’d be happy to let her channel some of her aggression onto him. He knows she’s been all pent up with no one to punch lately.

She laughs a little hollowly at that, and he sees his misstep, quickly moves to correct it.

He’ll even put an arm behind his back, he offers, just to even the score a little.

She does bite him then, muffling a snicker against his shoulder with a mouthful of warm skin and worn out fabric.

They slip into her quarters, hardly moving from each other’s hold, and fall onto her bed at once. She forces him down with her one arm, glares with her one good eye, and pushes him to the point of pain.

His wings protest, his muscles protest even louder, but each too-tight grip and desperate kiss drains him of his own built up energy, breathes a little life back into her dull laugh.

He had hoped to touch her tenderly all week, but he knows a need to bite and scratch and scream when he sees it. He gives her what she wants, what they both need, and lingers almost longer than he should.

.

.

There are six nights left to live with her.

No plans to meet are made, but their paths still cross, as they always seem to, in a small port town.

They can only see each other for a moment, but she makes it count. Darting between the walls of the court house she’s just set ablaze and the prison he’s rescued an innocent troll from, she pins him to hard stone and kisses him with a fierce intensity.

His tongue just barely catches hers before she’s off again, the click of her boots echoing through the night as she laughs breathlessly and thumbs her nose at him.

He wants nothing more than to chase after her. He must head back to base instead.

There are six nights left to learn to live without her.

.

.

Both moons are out tonight, half their full size but shining bright enough together to light cobblestone streets.

The Summoner links arms with his favorite (only,) lady, and together they hit the town.

There are five nights left. 

They go out for drinks, nothing more, nothing less. They wear plain clothes and sit close together in a bustling tavern. His wings are bound back and her hair is braided. They look almost nothing like themselves, and when no one recognizes them, they embrace the gift of anonymity.

Sitting in a corner, joking and drinking, nudging each other’s feet under the table, they blend in beautifully.

She hardly looks like a pirate like this, he tells her, somewhat admiring.

He hardly looks like a rowdy punk out for trouble, she counters, but immediately takes it back. Even with his hair nicely combed and his face washed, he looks like exactly the kind of fool you’d see leading a band of ruffians and thugs.

Don’t forget the rapscallions, he reminds her.

Of course, she replies, never forget them.

For all that they’re joking, he takes it to heart. Those troublemakers he leads are his friends, something like brothers and sisters, and he could never forget a single one. He thinks fleetingly of those he’s lost, of the crew members Mindfang has seen fall to similar pointless battles. Struck suddenly by a pang of grief, he raises his glass for a quiet toast.

She obliges him, somewhat grudgingly. Though it’s only been a matter of hours, she’s already put the bloodshed from two nights ago behind her. She’s like that, always pushing forward.

Let the past stay in the past, she says with a grandiose air, though she likely means it as an order.

She expects him to bow to her, to follow along as he has before. And he may, at times. But the bitterness in her words, the lazy tilt of her head as she regards the loss of a few more lives, makes him cringe.

He doesn’t think her cruel, just jaded.

He can’t stay too late, he has an important meeting with a guy from the valley region resistance just past dusk. Still, he leaves a little earlier than he has to, feeling uncomfortable in light of the Marquise’s moodiness.

He gives her a kiss from across the table before he heads out, sees her smile, sweet as anything, savoring it.

She can be so lovely sometimes, when she isn’t being terrible.

Behind the tavern, he loosens the binding on his wings, stretches them out and readies himself for flight. He seeks out cloud cover and sneaks behind it, lets the rush of wind against his face whip a chill into him.

He thinks maybe if he becomes as cold as she is, it won’t sting so much to lose her.

.

.

They cannot meet tonight. There’s too much happening on her end. Nothing serious, she assures him in writing, just ‘8usy, 8usy, 8usy!’

He wants to roll his eyes at her silly little quirk, but he doesn’t have the heart. There are four nights left and he wants to see her, isn’t sure if he could really stand it. He’s conflicted in every regard, and his friends are starting to notice just how distracted he’s become.

They suggest ignoring her, just breaking things off already. They have nothing nice to say about the notorious Spineret Mindfang, though strange enough not a one among them will come out and admit that simply ignoring her will make the problem go away.

They all tiptoe around the subject, grimace and bite their tongues when she comes around. They warn the Summoner in their own ways, shared glances and gentle reminders, that she will not be on their side for very long.

He wants so badly to believe in her, in what they share, but only a fool would put that much faith in the queen of pirates.  

Lonely, unsure, he mentally searches the shallow waters around her ship. He finds a crab, borrows a moment of its time to rearrange the shells nearby. The Marquise is known to appreciate a romantic gesture every once in a while, and he figures a sprawling heart shaped line of shells with her name in the middle of it ought to do the trick.

When the last letter is in place he lets the little crab go, lays back in the pile of leaves he’s put together to make the base feel more like home. He expects not to hear from her for at least another night.

It takes her fifteen minutes.

He knows something is out of sorts when someone enters his quarters uninvited. He values his privacy, and all of his friends respect it. To look up and see someone standing in the doorway is unusual, somewhat concerning.

The troll in question is part of the navigation team, a few sweeps older than him and slightly lower on the hemospectrum. He is nearly always smiling while they work, and to see him now with an expression that looks caught between two thoughts makes the Summoner pause in greeting him.

He says his name, questioning, and frowns at the lack of response. Already suspicious, he pushes himself up out of the leaf pile, stares hard as the troll’s clouded eyes attempt to focus, never quite meet their mark. A slow smile slides into place finally, but it isn’t quite right.

His voice, when he speaks, is all his own, but the pattern belongs to another troll. One who is surely in hysterics an ocean away.

The Summoner says her name, harsher than he’s used to being, insists that she get out of his friend this instant.

A laugh then, smug and cold as he’d expect from her.

She got the impression he missed her, she says, speaking through her captive. The emotion in her voice never quite reaches his eyes, makes him react a moment too slow.

The Summoner has never liked the way she plays with people’s minds, and seeing her work over one of his own for no good reason at all makes him feel slightly sick.

She must see his expression from where she sits, because she twists the navigator’s mouth into a frown, makes him sigh and shift his weight, folding his arms to match her own image of frustration.

Don’t look so repulsed, she says, and he can almost hear it in her real voice. She says he’s really no different, controlling poor, stupid animals.

He bristles at that. They’ve had this argument before, many times over. She _takes_ control, he simply asks if he can borrow it. Besides, though he hardly thinks them poor and stupid, controlling animals never seemed quite as terrible as controlling one of their own.

He repeats himself, demands that she let his navigator go. She sighs again, walks the troll closer, stoops him low so he and the Summoner may see eye to eye. Up close the rich, dark red of his irises looks dulled, his expression strained. She is a master of her art, the Marquise, but her work still leaves traces.

At least she picked a handsome fellow to strut around in this time, she says, and laughs at the Summoner’s obvious discomfort.

He says nothing, embarrassed as she looks him over, long-distance. She has a habit of choosing the most attractive trolls to bend to her whims. He isn’t sure if it’s a conscious choice or simply the luck of the draw, but he’s half convinced she’s doing it just to get his goat. She knows the sort of trolls he fancies, always seems to point them out in crowds, or among her own prisoners.

She always jokes that he’ll have to choose a new plaything for himself, when he kills her and all.  

She is playing with him now, a game he doesn’t find at all amusing.

When she lowers the eyelids of her prey, lifts the troll’s hand and drops it lightly on the Summoner’s thigh, she is watching, waiting to see what he’ll do.

She asks if he remembers the first time they worked together.

Yes. Yes he remembers.

A small favor, she’d said. Just a little thing. Then she’d shoved him before the cave of a massive dragon, watched from the cliff face while he struggled to commune with something stronger than any creature he’d ever seen.

Still, it wasn’t a creature he couldn’t handle.

She’d kissed him after all was said and done, softly, on the cheek. A polite thank you for being such a dear.

She kisses him now, with lips that don’t belong to her, chapped and split from wind, from a fight. Just on the cheek, but he recoils quickly all the same.

She admits that she misses him, and doesn’t wait for him to return the sentiment.

She returns her temporary slave’s control of his own mind, and is gone before the Summoner can shift from shock to anger.

The navigator has no such problem. Humiliation hits him first, turning his face splotched and red, and as he stumbles to his feet, the Summoner tries to apologize on behalf of his matesprit.

It’s unforgivable, what she does, but he does his best to smooth things over.

Considering that the troll in question storms out of the room, bellowing that he has to get that fucking pirate out of their collective hair already, he assumes he’s done a poor job.

Word of the Marquise’s most recent insult travels around the camp fast, turns his comrades’ opinion of her even more sour than it ever was. No real harm has been done, but the last ounce of trust is surely broken.

The Summoner sulks alone, wings flicking so violently in irritation behind him that no one dares approach with questions or concerns for the rest of the evening.

Even from afar, she manages to alienate him from his fellow rebels.

.

.

Three nights hardly seems like any time at all, but that is the time they have.

All is not well after the previous night’s upset, but the Summoner puts aside his concern for the moment. He invites her in and they stay out of sight, away from the rest of the camp.

Sitting out under the stars on the balcony of the crumbling highblood residence the Summoner has taken as his Western base, he strokes the Marquise’s hair and calls her by her name and she does not hit him.

When she kisses his palm so gently, sighs at the warmth of his body, he wonders what he was ever thinking. How could he kill such a beautiful creature, such a kind and clever person? Over some silly politics? Over a few stupid rumors and questionable actions?

He tries not to think of how many of those rumors have already been verified.                               

He tries not to think very much at all, and succeeds only after sliding his now lipstick-stained hand down to stroke the Marquise’s neck, earning an approving murmur.

He slides both hands lower to earn another murmur, a laugh, a suggestion to free her from all these stifling clothes.

He has her blouse unbuttoned in a flash, jacket pushed aside. Shameless, he strips her down to nothing, offers no resistance when she returns the favor in a smooth movement, practiced fingers pulling at fabric, at his own personal strings.

She strokes his wings and makes him shudder as he tries hard to keep them still. He steers her hips and pulls her close and listens for her moan. She is unabashedly loud, though she says his name in a whisper, like a secret.

She tells him where to touch, what to do, and he listens half the time.

They move together, share a breath, a kiss, and not a single word. Their usual repartee would spoil the mood, so sounds are kept to a minimum. He moans, she gasps, they laugh together, and all feels right in the world for a few close moments.

.

.

With two nights left, he comes to see her.

She’s amused, slightly suspicious. Why so many visits lately? Is he turning needy and emotional on her all of a sudden?

He shrugs and shuffles his feet, leans a shoulder against the door of her cabin and just watches her while she plots and plans. He makes excuses about a few quiet evenings back at his own base, says he’s free for a while and might as well spend the time with someone he likes.

She still looks suspicious, but pleased enough with his company to let it go. She makes no fuss about working in front of him, despite half her projects being supposed secrets. She’s hiding a million little things from him at any given moment, but he generally trusts her to share the most important information openly.

He glances over her shoulder at the maps and notes she isn’t quite hiding, asks what she’s up to. He’s mostly just making conversation, sort of checking up on her.

She tells him, clearly and crisply, that she is building a tactical strategy for an indigo general to attack rebel forces by sea.

He nearly swallows his own tongue.

She elaborates quickly, with a forced little laugh, a strange sort of feigned ease. She waves a hand at him, sounds slightly condescending when she calls him darling, tells him not to worry. She’s only doing this for a quick bit of silver. Of course the plan won’t _really_ work. The stupid hoofbeast’s ass and his silly little army will get halfway to his Southern camp only to meet rough water and some unnavigable ruins that she had _no idea_ were there.

He knows she isn’t lying. The Marquise doesn’t lie. What she does is convince herself that she knows exactly what she’s doing, when in fact she has planned for something that cannot possibly work.

He reminds her of this, asks what will happen if the general _can_ navigate those ruins? What happens if they have a psionic on board, someone who can hurl a half-sunk ship out of their path without a second thought? What then?

She clicks her tongue, unconcerned. She picks up her pen to begin another note on the map, but he snatches it from her hand. She glances toward him, going cold and hard as if she hardly knows him. Too often she gives him this look, as though she doesn’t trust him, as though she may hate him. He tries not to take it personally, knows it isn’t a look reserved solely for him, but it hurts a little all the same.

He wants to ask her why she’s keeping him at a distance, still.

Instead, he says that he’s heard she’s in cahoots with a few people he isn’t overly fond of. More importantly, who aren’t too fond of him.

She smirks, turns her expression like the tide, slouches back in her chair, all settled in for a fight. She says she’s always in cahoots with someone or another, winks at him.

He wants to take her up on the silent offer for an argument, throw a bunch of logic at her and watch her dismantle it with nonsense the way she always does. He wants to raise his voice and rile her up, push her to the point where she says something awful and he finally has a good excuse.

But he’s promised her another night after this, and jumping the gun now would leave him feeling twice as awful later.

He catches himself looking at this like a chore, like the inevitable task it is, and shudders. He hates himself like this.

So he holds back, afraid to leave on a bad note, and she notices.

His wings droop, sad and sorry, and she sits up a little straighter in her chair. She offers him a smile, nearly apologetic, and says she knows what she’s doing. She doesn’t want to see him hurt. He should know that.

He _should_ know that.

When she spreads her arms wide for an embrace, he cannot keep from falling to his knees before her. When she puts her arms around his shoulders, he falls into the trap gladly.

She presses him to make up in a more exciting fashion, kisses his neck softly, but he can only think of what he has to do. Imagining her body any colder makes him sick.

He feigns an injured shoulder, accepts an undeserved massage, a _much_ deserved verbal assault, and feels like the king of fools.

.

.

On the last night he meets her at the shore. She calls it a halfway point, though both of them know damn well he belongs in the sky more than the sand.

He’s a wreck beneath it all, sinking slow. His lance in hand, he’s prepared. He writes its presence off as protection on his way here, and when he sees the hint of hesitation in her face, he wants only to break the thing in two.

She mistakes his heartache for frustration, must think him cross with her, since she makes an effort to be cheerful. She teases him playfully, ruffles his hair and blows him a kiss as she steps away, waits for him to take chase.

For once, he wants to take the lead. He will not follow her across the beach, but asks instead if she’d like to walk with him, get higher.

Though tense at first, opposing views clashing immediately, the mood soon lightens and the Marquise accepts his suggestion to go for a walk up along the cliffs. She is trying to appease him in her own way, playing soft and sweet, letting a touch of her true colors show.

She holds his arm as they step over jagged rocks, lets him hold her close to fly across a crevice. She breaks away, finally, as they clear the tops of trees. From higher ground they can see the sky, the waves below, and this, he thinks, is closer to a halfway.

The Marquise stays close enough to turn and offer fleeting smiles, her cautious steps through unsteady rock turning to a more confident stride. Her hips sway a familiar rhythm, and he matches it with his own steps. She slows to walk beside him, brushing his shoulder, then speeds up again, following the rough path to the top of the hill.

The moons are setting over the trees, faint traces of shocking sun showing on the horizon, and he is all too aware of the time left.

She speaks over her shoulder, laughs at her own jokes and tells him to lighten up, to calm down, to take a look around because it really is gorgeous up here. She stops beside a sapling, asks with a strained smile where her charming rogue has gone.

She looks, for a moment, like she might cry. He wants to comfort her, but no words come to mind.

He has nothing to say that could make her less dangerous. He imagines their situations reversed, him faltering, wondering, and her on a mission. She would strike, he thinks. She would kiss him, hot and sudden, and splash his blood across the rocks below just the same.

He cannot kiss her. He cannot even face her.

She turns and presses on, trailing gloved fingertips along the marbled rocks, slowing her steps. She walks like a woman condemned.

He says her name, softly, before he can stop himself, and flinches as he waits for her to turn and see it all, undress his intentions and strike first.

But she barely pauses. She doesn’t hear him, he realizes. She’s heard something else, louder, the crow of some great bird, and it’s intrigued her.

She tells him to come along, to hurry up, and steps forward, invigorated.

There is no more stalling.

As the rising sun begins to light the crests of the waves, glinting bright enough to nearly blind him, he reaches out to stop her. He grasps her arm, holds her back. Before she turns, he thrusts the lance through her.

He’s too much of a coward to look, can hardly see through the light anyway, but her heaving gasp is enough for him to know he’s made his mark. He kisses her cheek, nearly misses with his shaking.

The air leaves her in a stuttered sound, cut short as she crumples.

He catches her, one arm round her waist meeting a slick rush of blood. She stares ahead, sightless, shivering.

The blue that drips from her mouth is hardly a shade darker than the coating on her lips, barely warm when it meets his skin. He slides the lance from her body, feels her go that much limper. The second rush of blood makes him think he may gag, but the clench of his throat is only a sob.

He swallows it down, and does gag then, shoulders shaking as he drops his weapon.

She doesn’t speak, she cannot. She gasps for air though, and searches his expression with distant eyes as he turns her gently over.

On her back, in his arms, she convulses. It is not a pretty thing, it is not quiet.

She cries as he has never known her to before, and it isn’t long before his own face is streaked with tears. He dips close to her, presses his forehead to hers and whispers his love, his absolute devotion, but never an apology.

She fades fast, with the feeling of an eternity. All her sweeps, he thinks, each one that he missed, he must endure in a moment.

She leaves him covered in her blood, a shivering wreck with the smallest sense of pride. With light flooding the cliffside, he has no time to mourn.

Eight nights, he gave her. Then the death that she foretold.

More than she deserved, and exactly what she wanted.

He leaves her beneath the shade of trees, his lance plunged deep into the ground beside her to mark a place he will never return to.

Defenseless, without a matesprit, he takes to the sky and races the sun back home.

.

.

.


End file.
